Weight
by danang1970
Summary: Let's get some good ol' fashioned h/c up in this beeyatch! Torture and aftermath with a couple of District 9 parallels.
1. Chapter 1: Hurt

When they found him, they also found the tapes.

They grabbed them, all the ones they could find that were dated within the last five days. It was standard procedure: Eliminate security tapes, photographs, signatures, any concrete evidence of their presence. They'd done it dozens of times before. The sweep was efficient and easy, which was thankful because the predominant thought screaming through their minds had nothing to do with their own safety or discretion.

"_Get him out."_

Face carried the bag with the tapes, as well as records, files and other signed documents that would bring this organisation down. He took the side exit with Hannibal, who carried their unconscious pilot to the van. They would catalogue his wounds later, when they were back at their safe house.

BA left by the back exit, ushering the other captives (_children_) into the awaiting bus. Alice was behind the wheel, pale but steady as she hurried the escapees in a tone that was just short of panic. He stayed with her, ostensibly to tend to the more serious injuries while Alice drove to the nearest hospital, but primarily because he wanted to make sure she stayed focused. The last thing they needed was for this bus to roll because she couldn't handle this.

Not that he blamed her. She wasn't trained. Hell, he didn't even know if you _could_ be trained to handle this. People did all kinds of fucked up shit in the name of war, religion, for their flag or country or pride. BA wasn't sure how to categorise this. _Evil_ sounded too trite and melodramatic. _Science _gave the impression of a greater good. There was no greater good here. Only a dozen terrified, bleeding children who might never recover from what happened to them in there.

And Murdock.

BA set his jaw. The plan was to have Alice drop him a few blocks from the hospital. They'd stationed another car there, rented under a false name, so he could get himself to their current hideout. He would deal with his teammate then. Right now, he had to take care of the kids.

* * *

><p>They'd received the call three weeks before. Alice Hewitt, a young woman with pale eyes and the reedy, undernourished look of a baby bird, had haltingly asked them for help. She'd escaped from a cult, she told them, where she and others had been held and used for experiments.<p>

They met with her one week later, after checking her story out. The Truesong Community, it called itself, seemed to be founded on ideals of basic Christianity combined with a generic hippy attitude of karma, love and gluten-free vibes. It sounded flaky but harmless. Alice desperately insisted that it was not.

The commune was a front, she told them, for the experiments of the Leaders. Several months ago, the people who ran the community (the Leaders) began taking children of various ages from parents who lived in the commune. The story fed to the trusting mothers and fathers was that children benefitted most from the teachings and guidance of those who were truly enlightened. Being under the care of their parents, the Leaders said, would ultimately be detrimental to the child's personal and spiritual wellbeing. Wanting the best for their offspring, the parents gratefully entrusted their children into the Leaders' hands.

At nineteen, Alice was the eldest child taken to the place she said the Leaders called The Vestibule. It was a misnomer: The Vestibule was actually a large warehouse converted into a factory. White and sterile, it was a far cry from the modest tents and outdoor barbecues provided on the commune. A winding corridor snaked through the single-storey building, from which rooms of various size branched off. These rooms, Alice said, were where the experiments took place.

The Leaders were not completely deceptive when espousing their ideals and values. They did hold spirituality and a higher faith above all else. They did believe in the teachings of the New Testament. But they were also driven by their own need to know more. Specifically, they were interested in the soul.

Doctors in the past, Alice said (while Murdock nodded because of course he already knew this), had attempted to discern the weight of the soul by taking the weight of a person immediately before and after death. The weight of a human soul, she told them, had been declared to be twenty-one grams.

The Leaders wanted to know more. They wanted to know if and how the soul was affected by specific actions. The Vestibule was their laboratory. Each room was used for a different experiment. How would the soul react, the Leaders demanded to learn, to sin? To despair? To torture?

Alice had escaped after two days and one night at The Vestibule. She couldn't tell them what she had experienced or seen, but parts of her head had been shaved and there were needle marks in her arms. Sedatives and nothing more, she said. She swore she hadn't been raped. If the team tried to question her further, she started shaking. Alice provided them with details on the location and layout of the building, a rough estimate of how many children were being kept there and where, but she couldn't talk about what was done to her.

The day Murdock was taken was only supposed to be a recon mission. Locate The Vestibule, cite viable access points, observe the security measures and artillery (if any) and regroup to strategize. The four of them had been posted around the perimeter of the property, which was surrounded with a chain-link fence topped with razor wire.

They were nearly finished when it happened. Hannibal had been about to order them back to the van when Murdock came over the comm set BA had rigged up.

"Got a kid down here, Hannibal."

The Colonel had frowned. "Say again, Captain."

Silence for a beat, then: "Young boy, 'bout ten maybe, I can't see him too clear. He's between two of their vans."

BA spoke up then. "You think he's making a run for it?"

"Maybe." Murdock's voice was hushed. "I'm gonna move closer. Stand by."

Less than a minute later, he spoke again. "I'm fifteen feet from the outer fence. Kid's still there, definitely hiding, but something about this smells like Face's feet. _("Hey!" the blond interjected._) He's not focused on the warehouse. He keeps looking for something outside the fence. Seems real nervous."

A trap. Hannibal opened his mouth to give the order to fall back. That's when everything went to shit.

The Leaders had put a sniper in one of their vans. Luring them to the cowering boy put them right in the line of fire. Murdock was a perfect target.

Shots rang out. Hannibal couldn't see if they found their mark. Two men armed men exited the warehouse and grabbed the boy who'd been their bait. They held a gun to his head. He cried. They made him kneel on the ground in front of them, hands on his head. They aimed the gun. He screamed. He was only about eight years old. He wet himself and begged.

Murdock stood and shouted at them. He dropped his own weapon (and the comm headset) to the ground and raised his arms. He didn't look injured, which was a small mercy. Hannibal couldn't hear what he was saying, but he knew. He also knew that there was no way they could risk retaliation, not from this distance when there was a gun aimed point-blank at a child's head.

He watched long enough to see them let Murdock in through a heavily-padlocked side gate and take him inside without allowing him a backwards glance.

That was five days ago. When the team had returned the next day, guns ready to blaze, the warehouse was empty. Some metal operation tables and what looked like medical files remained, scattered on the floor as the Leaders had clearly packed and moved with great haste. They must have had another base of operations somewhere, but Alice insisted tearfully that she had no idea where it could be. The team had been searching tirelessly ever since, stopping only to eat and rest the bare minimum to fuel the energy necessary to mount a rescue mission.

Finally, they found it. V2, the team had taken to calling it: Vestibule 2. Nearly identical to the first, it was a large warehouse on the outskirts of town. The Leaders hadn't been expecting them this time. That part was easy.

The aftermath would not be.


	2. Chapter 2: Hurt

Murdock's most obvious injuries were physically nothing the team couldn't handle, even without access to a doctor or hospital-grade medical supplies. That didn't mean they weren't horrific. The mindset behind the infliction of the type of wounds Hannibal saw on his pilot, and on the children Alice had taken to the hospital, was unfathomable to the Colonel. None of the team was naïve, not by a long shot, but they were used to bloodshed in the name of war. This systematic, remorseless cruelty was something they'd never encountered before.

By the time BA arrived at the private, double storey farmhouse the team was currently residing in, Murdock had begun to wake up. Bosco entered the pilot's bedroom to find Murdock laid out on the mattress, spare sheets underneath him to catch the worst of the blood, wearing his boxers and nothing else. Hannibal was at the foot of the bed, rotating Murdock's ankle gingerly and examining a manacle that was clasped tightly around the joint. Face was standing by the headboard talking to Murdock softly.

As BA assessed the situation, Murdock moaned. His eyelids fluttered.

"It's okay," said Face soothingly, glancing at Hannibal to check what the older man was doing. "You're safe. You're okay."

Murdock mumbled something, eyes still half-closed. Face leaned in. "What is it, buddy? What's-"

Face was punched in the nose.

His head snapped back and he nearly toppled over completely. "Son of a BITCH!" he cursed, holding his nose and checking for loose teeth with his tongue. "Motherfucker."

Hannibal knew he didn't mean it. "He's disoriented," he pointed out helpfully, not taking his eyes off Murdock's leg. "You should have taken precautions."

Face grabbed a t-shirt off the floor and held it to his nose, hoping it was clean and justifying the destruction of Murdock's clothing by reasoning that it was the pilot's fault he was bleeding in the first place. "I'm not tying him down, if that's what you're saying," he said, voice embarrassingly nasal. He coughed. It tasted coppery.

Hannibal ignored him. Face always got tetchy when he was worried. "BA," he said instead. "We're going to need your tools."

At that, the bigger man stepped forward to see what Hannibal was looking at. "Aw, damn."

What BA and Face had assumed was a simple shackle was not. Bosco could only guess that it was intended to essentially serve the same purpose. Running around the thick band of metal were deep groves. On closer inspection, Hannibal had realised that the grooves held thinner, smaller pieces of metal that had been punched through the shackle.

The cuff was bolted into Murdock's leg.

BA ran a hand over his face. Without another word, he left the room. Face had gone grey and Hannibal knew it had nothing to do with blood loss (or even worry about the possibility of a crooked nose).

"Ha'bal?" Murdock was stirring again.

The Colonel put a hand on Murdock's calf, both to comfort him and to prevent him from moving the leg and causing further injury. "I'm here, son," he said gently. "Are you back with us?"

At the sound of the other man's voice, Murdock's eyes flew open. He would have bolted off the bed if Face hadn't shot forward and restrained him.

If they'd wanted a tearful reunion, or relieved expressions of gratitude, they were disappointed. Murdock's eyes flicked around the room, taking in the location and the men holding him. Hannibal stroked his leg reassuringly.

"Oh fuck," Murdock moaned, sagging back against Face. "Oh god." He shuddered and let out what could only be described as a keening wail, tipping his head back so far his neck cracked. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes and ran towards his ears. He grasped at Face's arms and shook, body convulsing so hard through his sobs that the only noise he could make was a horrible wet gasp.

Face looked appalled. He held his friend tightly and looked pleadingly to Hannibal. "It's okay, man," he said helplessly, kneeling awkwardly by the bed. He tried to shift so he was holding Murdock, but the pilot wouldn't relinquish his iron grip, clinging to the conman's forearms. "It's okay. You're here. You're with us. You're safe."

But Hannibal understood, and it made his heart break. "It's alright," he said over Face's soothing nonsense, rubbing soothing circles up Murdock's leg, from inner thigh to injured ankle. "You can let it out now, son. It's alright."

BA stood in the doorway, mouth a hard line as he watched Murdock's body struggle to finally release five days' worth of anguish, pain, fear and anger. His fingers clenched the toolbox so hard he left dents in the handle. When he realised this, he bowed his head and took a deep breath. Anger wasn't what Crazy needed right now. He shoved it aside – and it was hard, like pushing the rock of Gibralter – and forced himself to be calm. He focused on his love for the man in the bed, and the men holding him, rather than his fury at what had been done.

When he was eighty percent certain that he could move his body without breaking everything within a five-mile radius in a blind rage, Bosco entered the room. He made his way to the head of the bed, gently slipping between Face and Murdock without forcing the pilot to relinquish his death grip on the blond. Bosco stroked Murdock's cheek tenderly, ignoring the tears, snot and sweat.

"Hey, Crazy," he murmured with more tenderness than most people would have thought him capable of. "Hey."

He waited patiently, until Murdock finally tilted his head back to a more natural position and met BA's gaze. The awful, jarring sobs had quieted but he still shuddered forcefully. Tears fell from his eyes like they would never stop.

Murdock sniffed. "Hey."

It was little more than a croak, but Bosco smiled softly. He ran a massive paw down Murdock's cheek again, feeling the flush from his distress and the scratch of nearly a week's worth of stubble. "We gotta get that thing off your leg," he told Murdock quietly.

The Captain swallowed. "I know." He took a deep breath, still shaking with involuntary tremors. He nodded to BA and Hannibal and squeezed Face's arm in reassurance. "Do it."

There were eight bolts securing the manacle in place. They needed to be pried out slowly, to ensure that they didn't break off inside the bone. Hannibal steadied Murdock's legs while BA worked. Murdock cried out into Face's neck, but it was nothing like the chilling wail of before. By the time Bosco had removed six of the bolts, Murdock barely reacted. Overcome with fatigue, relief and pain, he closed his eyes and let himself go away for a while.


	3. Chapter 3: Hurt

"Sitting in the dark?"

Face's soft voice cut through Hannibal's thoughts. The light from the hallway made it possible to navigate the room without tripping over furniture, a fact for which Face was grateful as he made his way to the sofa and sat down next to the Colonel.

The older man was staring at the coffee table in from of him, upon which sat an ashtray, yesterday's (mutilated) newspaper, a glass of neat scotch and a stack of videotapes. No prizes for guessing which was causing the deep, pensive lines in the Colonel's dimly-lit face.

"BA still playing guard dog?" Hannibal hadn't needed to ask the question. The Corporal refused to leave Murdock's side all afternoon unless it was to retrieve more sterile bandages. The big man hadn't spoken much as they worked to clean, dress and in some cases suture the pilot's injuries, but the tension rolling off his mammoth form was almost suffocating. Face was positive it wasn't healthy for neck veins to stick out that much. He was grateful for more than one reason that Murdock was unconscious for most of their doctoring. The Captain's automatic responses to BA's bad moods were rarely helpful and he couldn't afford to waste his energy on composing a Yiddish opera about Tony Danza right now.

After they'd finished and done a thorough check of Murdock's body for anything that might have been missed – Face had discovered a cluster of small sewing needles, of all things, jammed into the heel of Murdock's left foot after they'd thought they'd finished the first time – Hannibal had expected BA to slam out of the room and hit things until he made holes in them. Last time he'd seen the man quivering with so much rage and impotent aggression, the Corporal had ended up punching their huge stainless steel fridge across the room. It bore knuckle-shaped dents until the end of its days.

But BA hadn't left. He hadn't even punched anything. He'd helped Hannibal and Face clear away the bloodied bandages and other nauseating evidence of Murdock's ordeal (_torture_) then pulled up a chair next to the bed. He'd stroked Murdock's hair, so gently and briefly that Face thought he might have imagined it, and settled himself in, simply watching. His teammates knew it was pointless to try to get him to move or suggest he eat/rest/shower himself, so they didn't bother. Truth be told, it reassured all of them to know that someone was watching Murdock. It wasn't logical – there was no way he could be taken from inside the safe house – but that wasn't the point.

By the time Face and Hannibal had left BA and Murdock, it was nearly dark. Face had beelined for the shower and Hannibal, the wet bar. The Colonel couldn't get the images of Murdock's injuries out of his head.

The appalling cuff, the needles in his foot, cuts made with neat surgical precision and deeper gashes with ragged edges. A splotchy area on Murdock's back that looked like a chemical burn. Marks around his wrists and neck from more conventional, if still barbaric, restraints. Countless needle marks that would mean they'd have to watch for drug reactions beyond the expected withdrawal from five days without his usual meds. Raw strips of pink over Murdock's ribs where it seemed as though the skin had been flayed off like a scaled fish. A missing molar, probably caused during the blow that discoloured and swelled his jaw. A black eye, bloodshot from burst vessels. What could be a cracked rib. Countless bruises, scrapes and swollen, tender areas.

Nothing huge, no life-shattering wounds that would ruin Murdock's life or even scar too badly. But Hannibal was smart enough to know that the physical severity of an injury was very rarely related to the damage it caused.

Murdock was strong – Hannibal wouldn't have him on his team if he wasn't – and had proven that his plethora of mental issues never affected his duties on the field. It wasn't that his craziness (for lack of a more politically-correct term) "switched off" during missions; if anything, his mania became more intense. It was more that the pilot seemed to be able to pull the best parts of his illness, such as they were, to the fore and leave the rest behind. He never had an attack of paranoia or (dangerous) hallucination while flying. He never faded out of reality or fell into catatonic depression when they needed him for backup. Those parts of his psyche had somehow been locked in a mental box marked "Off-Duty Only". Those were the parts that Hannibal was worried about now.

In order to know what would be needed, anticipate a breakdown or reaction before it occurred, Hannibal needed to know what happened in V2. He needed to watch the tapes.

Face sighed and took a large sip of Hannibal's scotch. The older man didn't bother to chide him.

"So," said Face lowly. "Want me to put it on?"

No. Hannibal would be happy to never see the contents of those tapes. He'd love to sweep this whole thing under his mental rug and pretend that the relatively minor physical injuries were the worst trauma that Murdock had sustained in that factory. Spend a couple of days in bed and you'll be right as rain, Captain, provided that ankle doesn't succumb to massive infection. That's a good lad.

Like any good-to-legendary leader, though, Hannibal knew what was best for his team. Murdock had to go through it, and his Colonel had to watch it. By the way Face was already preparing the tape for playback, Hannibal knew he wasn't alone in this sense of obligation. Not for the first time, he wished he could spare his boys from these ugly realities of their unconventional lives. Also not for the first time, he then reminded himself that they weren't boys at all: they were soldiers. The best. They could no more walk away from this life, and out of the firing line, than Hannibal himself. For better and often worse, it was in their blood. Discharged and on the run or not, they would always be soldiers.

Still. Sometimes even soldiers need a bit of Dutch courage. Before Face pressed play, Hannibal threw back the last of his drink with one large swallow. He breathed slowly through the burn as the tape began to play.

_Black. _

_A quick blip: Flash of numbers at the bottom of the screen._

_Gray-green fuzz. Blobs. Snaps into sharper focus. _

_Small room. One blob was a man on a chair, facing away from the camera. It is impossible to tell exactly how he is connected to the chair, but chains pool at his feet. They move as he fidgets. There is a bucket underneath the chair. _

_Another blob was a large mirror. It takes up an entire wall on the man's right. He knows he is being watched. He twists, jerking himself towards the mirror. His movements are tired. He might be speaking. There is no audio._

_Suddenly the screen clicks to night-vision green. The man reacts. His movements become more agitated. There are no windows. He is in total blackness. He pulls harder on the chains. The chair is bolted to the floor. He seems to shout towards to mirror, but there is no response._

_The scene continues for seventeen minutes. _

_Black._

_A man lies on stainless steel operating table. No audio. The camera is angled so that only his chin is visible, the rest of his face obscured. He wears nothing but plain boxers. IVs snake in and out of his arms. His body is tense. Toes flexed, hands fisted, spine arched and rigid. He is seizing. He collapses to the table before seizing again. Again. Again. A tattoo on his arm quivers as his muscles spasm._

_People cross the screen in front of the man as he thrashes. They are wearing white coats. Their faces are hidden by masks. Some of them take notes. Some check the man's IV bags. _

_One person in a white coat injects the seizing man with something. A note is made on a clipboard as the seizures stop. The man is unhooked from all but one IV and wheeled out of the room. As the gurney passes the camera, his face is seen briefly. He appears unconscious. Something dark runs out of his ears._

_Black._

_Small room again. The man slumps in his chair. He is still. After 34 seconds, a large figure enters from off-camera. The man does not react. The newcomer is a solidly-built male dressed in a dark suit. He examines the still man, touching his face clinically. The man looks up. The larger man punches him solidly in the jaw. There is no expression, no emotion as he does it. _

_The man on the chair reels back. He shudders. He is moving unnaturally on the chair. He is punched again. His legs are kicked. The attacker attempts to throw him off the chair and he writhes, resisting fiercely. Something about his thrashing is wrong. He only moves one leg. On closer inspection, the other seems rigid, plastered to the chair leg but no chains are visible. There is a flash of something metal. The man is hit again._

_The man in the suit leaves summarily. There is no emotion on his face as he turns back to the camera and exits._

_Black._

_Screaming. It is too loud and harsh after silent footage. It is a man's voice, but high and manic like an animal. _

_The camera pulls back. A large, tiled room. Many people with white coats are watching the screaming man, who stands against the wall. He seems to be in his late fifties, but his face is weathered and dirty and it's hard to tell. He is wearing soiled, ragged clothes. He does not stop screaming but the people in white coats do not react to him. He is terrified._

_Camera pans jerkily to reveal what the screaming man is looking at. It is the man from the chair, the man who was being beaten and seizing. He is wearing a loose hospital gown. His face is haggard. He is shaking but stands straight, flinching away from the people in white coats. They surround him, speaking over one another. His hand is tied to a rifle that is attached to a tripod in the floor, aiming at the screaming man._

_The noise is chaos. The screaming drowns out nearly everything. The voices of the white coats is a persistent thrum. Occasionally, the man holding the gun shouts loud enough to be picked up by the camera mic._

"_-et him go, he hasn-"_

"_-king lunatics-"_

"_GET OFF ME!"_

_Then there is a sharp, buzzing sound and a loud bang. The screaming stops. The white coats move and the camera swivels again. The far wall is splattered with blood. The old man is crumpled on the floor. The people in coats are writing on their clipboards._

_There is a wordless, angry yell. The camera pans again, awkwardly zooming out then in again. The man with the gun is being unstrapped. The white coats hold him warily. He hunches as if in pain. One white coat near him holds what looks like a cattle prod._

"You fuckers!" shouts the man as his arms are restrained behind him. He kicks out. They pull him back. "You evil, moronic, self-righteous assholes." His head is pulled back but he twists and keeps yelling. "Fucking Boris and Natasha, Lex Luthor, baby-killing, seal-clubbing motherf-ah!" He cries out as they plunge a needle into the large vein in his neck then carries on. His voice is angry and hysterical. It fades as they drag him out of the room. "

_Wahrlich, ein schmutziger Strom ist der Mensch. Man muß schon ein Meer sein, um einen schmutzigen…" _

_The voice fades to nothing. _

_Black._

_A large, sterile room. No audio. The man is on the floor. He is naked. There is blood on his torso that smears onto the ground around him. His leg is shackled to a wall. There is a small child sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. She is wearing underpants and nothing more. She is sobbing. _

_Several white coats watch as the man strains desperately for the little girl. He lies on the floor and stretches as far as he can. He grits his teeth. A white coat steps forward, does something that makes the girl flinch and cry harder. The man strains, his face slick with sweat. Blood runs from his shackled ankle. He reaches, but he can't get to her. She looks around as she cries, at him, at the white coats. She shies away from them all. He reaches and scrabbles on the ground, but he can't-_

"Turn it off."

Hannibal barely recognised Face's voice. It had been a long time since he heard his Lieutenant sound so raw. The roughness to Face's voice and the wetness he saw in the younger man's eyes, coupled with the images he'd just been assaulted with, made Hannibal uncharacteristically slow to react.

"Dammit," snapped Face, practically jumping off the couch to punch the TV off himself. "Jesus."

The conman was breathing quickly, as though he'd just run a marathon. Hannibal's own heart was pounding in his ears. Without thinking, he stood and crossed the room. Face was shaking, hands and jaw clenched as he fought to control himself.

"Jesus," he said again, and coughed.

Hannibal didn't bother responding. There wasn't anything to say. He reached out and laid a hand on Face's arm. The younger man shifted into him instantly, resting his forehead on Hannibal's shoulder. The older man didn't try to embrace him, knowing that Face would be mortified by a gesture of comfort, but he kept a steadying hand on the boy. Eventually, some of the tension left Face's shoulders and he sagged, just a little. His body was still tense, but his breathing slowed as Hannibal gently stroked the nape of his neck.

Eventually, they separated. Without a word, they went straight back to the couch. There were still three and a half more tapes to watch.


	4. Chapter 4: Hurt Comfort

Three quarters through tape #3 (and halfway through the bottle of scotch), Face and Hannibal were interrupted by a commotion from upstairs. Specifically, a thump, a cry, a series of stompy footsteps and BA's muffled Angry Voice. With speed born from years of practice at reacting to noises like that, they bolted up the stairs.

Murdock and BA were in the bathroom. Murdock was standing against the wall, glaring at BA. No, wait. Grimacing. Grimacing and holding his right hand tightly to his bare chest.

BA was still yelling, but without the muffling effect the other two could hear the anxiety and worry in his tone. Murdock didn't appear to be in the position to be so perceptive, though.

"Give me your hand, fool," demanded the bigger man in a voice that would have reassured absolutely no one, let alone a skittish Murdock in the middle of medication withdrawal and very possibly PTSD flashbacks. Murdock flinched back and pressed himself further against the wall. "I ain't playing, fool. Give me your hand!"

Face stepped into the room. Hannibal hung back – the bathroom was small and Face's physical presence was less menacing than BA's or his own, the conman's protests about the intimidation factor of his much-displayed abs and biceps notwithstanding.

"You proposing, big guy?" asked Face, making a weak attempt to cut the tension. He shot BA a look: _Calm the fuck down._

The Corporal's nostrils flared but he lowered his voice. "I fell asleep," he admitted through gritted teeth. "Not long. When I woke up, this crazy idiot was slamming his hand in the door. I'm trying to take care of it." He scowled at Murdock, who twitched and seemed to press further back into the wall.

That in itself was unusual, and not a good sign. Murdock's reactions to any aggressor, from a cranky BA to homicidal insurgent, was to fly at it with everything he had, teeth bared in a feral grin that dared the world and all its inhabitants to try their worst. Flinching and cowing only occurred very rarely, during the pilot's periods of deeper depression when even the team, it seemed, was perceived as a threat.

"Murdock?" Face asked gently. "Can I take a look?" _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._ He shared a look with Hannibal as they both cursed themselves for not acting sooner. They had been so caught up in the horror of the videos that they hadn't thought to start precautions against this sort of thing _now_, when it clearly needed to be done _yesterday_. Not for the first time, Face wished they were more qualified to deal with the darker parts of Murdock's many, many psychological issues. He was going to do his own research, Face resolved. The team had been together ten years: It was about damn time, especially since they no longer had access to mental health professionals through the Army.

In response to Face's request, Murdock hesitantly held out his hand. The blond sent a message to every one of his facial muscles, telling them sternly to NOT shoot BA a smug look. Now was not the time.

"I can't- I'm sorry," Murdock said haltingly. He seemed to be trying to hold himself as steady as possible. Face was nearly positive that most of the twitching and shaking was a side-effect of his period without meds rather than any fear of the team. He glanced at his teammate's bare torso critically. Maybe weight loss and cold, too.

"It's okay," he soothed, taking Murdock's injured hand gently. "I just need to see." Examining the hand, he bit back a curse. Murdock had done a number on himself, and it was his dominant hand, too. All they could do without access to proper equipment was splint his fingers, strap it up and hope everything healed without nerve damage or loss of function. Face didn't want to think about the possibility of Murdock losing the ability to fly because of this.

"It'll be fine," he found himself saying, hoping it wasn't a lie. "I'll wrap it up. Wanna do it in bed?" Face paused, hoping for a reaction. Murdock usually chuckled at his double-entendres, if sometimes in a way that Face suspected was slightly indulgent, like Murdock was rewarding a simple kid for trying real hard. If the Captain wasn't his best friend, Face would hate him for his high IQ sometimes. _Everyone_ loves a good "That's what she said" joke, right?

But this time, there was nothing. Murdock just nodded and pulled his hand back, exiting the bathroom swiftly.

By the time the other three entered the room, Murdock was already settled on his bed with legs crossed like he was at a sleepover. BA seemed to have had the same thoughts as Face regarding their friend's immediate physical comfort, because he pulled up the blanket and draped it over the pilot's shoulders. Face had no doubt that he would have wrapped Murdock up like a burrito if he thought he could get away with it. Hannibal wordlessly brought over the first aid supplies.

"Need any food, Crazy?" asked BA, voice rough but much softer than it had been a minute ago. "It's late, but you eat nachos at midnight anyway." Like Face, he seemed to hope for a reaction that didn't come. Murdock did nod though, pulling the blanket around himself with his good hand. BA figured that was all he was gonna get, and left to find something edible in the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, Hannibal," Murdock muttered as the Colonel as Face tended to his hand. 

"It's alright, son," assured Hannibal. "You've been through something-"

Murdock cut him off. "No, I mean… I'm sorry, but I can't." He looked into Hannibal's eyes, fear and a plea for understanding screaming in his expression. "I can't fire a gun again, Hannibal. Not right now. I'm sorry. I just, I can't."

Hannibal and Face knew that he wasn't talking about the restrictions of his injury.

Face cursed himself again for not thinking of this. Hannibal simply met Murdock's desperate stare and nodded, resisting the natural urge to squeeze Murdock's hand because he was holding the bad one and that wouldn't create the impression of love and support he was going for at all. He had expected something like this might happen.

"Okay," he said simply. "That's okay."

Murdock looked at his Colonel and Face warily, as if trying to find a trick behind Hannibal's words, or evidence that the other men hadn't understood him properly. Eventually, he seemed satisfied. "Okay," he repeated firmly, relaxing his shoulders slightly.

The damage to Murdock's hand didn't take long to splint and wrap, simply because there was so little they could do for the injury. Hannibal could only hope that his Captain hadn't shattered the bones too badly or caused any permanent damage. All they could do was wait for it to heal. All they could do for any of this was wait for it to heal.

Or maybe not. Hannibal set aside the first aid kit (crate, really) and sat down next to Murdock on the bed. Hoping he wasn't about to make a mistake that would be embarrassing at best and damaging to the pilot's mental health at worst, he slung an arm over the younger man's shoulders.

Murdock tensed. Hannibal could be affectionate, sure, but generally his displays were restricted to a hand on the shoulder, a punch in the arm, a manly one-armed backslap of a hug… Maybe even a hand-squeeze, like just before. But what the hell. He'd already practically cuddled Face downstairs earlier, and fuck it, Hannibal kind of needed a hug right now himself. So when Murdock's reaction was no more volatile than a jolt of surprised tension, Hannibal held on.

It was a bit awkward. Hannibal was a tall, solidly-built man and his muscular arms weren't primarily utilised for hugging. His arm rested heavily across Murdock's shoulders and he wasn't entirely sure what to do with his hand. He could have bent his arm slightly and cupped Murdock's shoulder with it, but shifting position now would be too close to fidgeting and Hannibal Smith did not fidget. He grit his teeth slightly, determined to ride this out.

As if sensing his Colonel's discomfort, which was entirely possible given that Hannibal was sure it was rolling off him in visible waves, Face settled down on Murdock's other side. He was more of a natural at this, leaning into Murdock's body comfortably and angling himself toward the pilot, unlike Hannibal who was squarely facing the front. Face wrapped an arm around Murdock's back, fingers stroking his friend's side with an ease for which Hannibal felt an unexpected jolt of envy.

Face was always easy with intimacy of any kind: He made friends with no effort, was obviously noted for his success with the ladies and indulged and even reciprocated the actions of touchy-feely people like Murdock without thinking twice. He always respected other people's boundaries, but the Lieutenant's personal bubble, at least for physical proximity, had always seemed very malleable to Hannibal. Face was as comfortable holding a conversation about military strategy with a "close-talking" Private three inches away as he was having a personal chat with Hannibal across a solid desk with several feet between them.

Hannibal had noted the man's relaxed personal space boundaries, of course, but rarely gave them thought. Now, though, Face seemed to have one up on the Colonel. This situation would require sensitivity and, dare he think it, a lot of TLC. They would need to be there for Murdock for whatever he needed, and Face's ability to give whatever he could of himself for his friends, up to and including borderline-questionable cuddles, had never seemed so valuable.

A dark head pulled Hannibal out of his thoughts. Specifically, Murdock's dark head, coming into Hannibal's peripheral vision as the Captain shifted to lean his body against the older man's side with a small sigh. Startled, it took Hannibal a moment to respond but he tightened the arm around Murdock just slightly.

It wasn't cuddling (_thank god_) and it wasn't any step forwards in terms of the pilot's recovery, but it gave Hannibal hope that maybe he wouldn't be as bad at this as he thought.


	5. Chapter 5: Comfort

By unspoken agreement, Murdock wasn't left alone after that. His teammates stayed with him until the morning, Face and Hannibal dozing with the pilot on the bed when a full stomach of BA's sandwiches finally made him drowsy, and BA returning to his chair. The three of them slept lightly: They needed rest, but Murdock wasn't going to leave the room without their knowledge again.

Thankfully, Murdock didn't seem to mind. Face worried that his friend might find their constant presence patronising or suffocating – he knew he would if the situation was reversed – but if anything, it seemed to settle the pilot. Face reasoned that Murdock was used to constant supervision from all the hospitals he'd been in, not to mention all Army doctors and wary Generals from over the years. And hell, maybe Murdock just needed to be around people right now.

Hannibal and BA had risen relatively early considering the late night and poor sleep, finally taking the opportunity to shower and eat themselves. Face was left with Murdock, who started to stir about half an hour after they left.

It was pain that woke him, that much was obvious. Face winced in sympathy as Murdock hissed and cradled his broken hand to his chest and flexed his injured leg as if trying to kick the re-emerging stabs of pain away. The Lieutenant leaned out of the bed, stretching so far he nearly fell off, and snagged the first aid box.

The triumphant smile Face broke into at his own rudimentary ninja skills dissolved when he rifled through the box and found the pharmacopeia at the bottom. It was great that they had every conceivable pain killer, anti-inflammatory, sedative, anti-anxiety, SSRI, antibiotic, anti-psychotic... It was wonderful that they had a collection that would make Hunter S Thompson moisten his panties because like good Boy Scouts, the A-Team needed to be prepared. The only problem was, Face had no idea what ninety percent of these medicines did.

Flicking his gaze to Murdock, who was clearly awake despite his closed eyes, Face made a decision. Nudging his friend's side to get his attention, the blond plopped the entire box of supplies on Murdock's stomach.

"Here," he said, giving 'Casual Because This Is Just A Normal Day' a try. "There's painkillers and meds and stuff in there. Let me know what you need."

Murdock shuffled into an upright position so he could rifle through the collection. Poking around with his good hand, he pulled out six bottles and handed them to Face to open. The Lieutenant held them on his lap awkwardly.

"So, uh, how many...?"

Murdock pointed to each bottle in turn, reciting in a sure if sleep-scratchy voice: "Two each of those ones, one of that, one and a half of the one with the blue label and three of those two."

Three? Three of... Face squinted. Fuck if he could pronounce the names of any of these, but three seemed like a lot. Why not just up the prescriptions if Murdock needed three? What was the half-life of these kinds of drugs? Was there a danger of Murdock ODing because he'd been forcibly cold turkey-ed and was jumping back into his regular dose? Should he be working his way up gradually? What if he wasn't thinking straight and made a mistake?

Face's thoughts were sometimes very loud, especially on the very rare occasions when he felt completely out of his depth. Murdock gave him a smile – it was crooked and tiny, but that was okay. He hadn't had much practice this week.

"S'alright, Faceman," he said reassuringly. "Seems like a lot but I'm high-maintenance." Murdock looked at the bottles. "You wanna know what they're for?"

Face was taken aback. He'd planned to do his own research into Murdock's condition(s), or at least get a general idea of some Dos and Don'ts, but the thought of asking his friend personally never crossed his mind. It was too much like interviewing Murdock or treating him like a specimen; a sum of his illnesses and not a person, the way so many Army psychiatrists seemed to see him. It felt insensitive somehow, altruistic and practical motivations notwithstanding. It never occurred to Face that Murdock might be willing or even eager to help him out.

Now wasn't the time to explore that, though. Murdock was in pain, tired, and probably still hungry even after two of BA's famous double-decker sandwiches at nearly midnight. He didn't need to be playing teacher on top of everything else.

"That's okay, man," Face replied, opening the bottles and tapping out pills as Murdock had instructed. "You can tell me later."

Murdock nodded. He dry-swallowed the pills two at a time as Face handed them over.

"You don't need food with those or anything?"

Murdock shook his head. "Nah, got an iron stomach." Face took the first aid box off his stomach and dumped it beside the bed, dropping the bottles on the top of the pile carelessly. Murdock shifted, wriggling like he was trying to smooth his pillow out with his back. After a few strange fidgety shuffles he seemed to give up, sighing. He rested his head back against the headboard and looked up at the ceiling. "Face?"

"Yeah, bud?"

Murdock's voice was quiet, almost embarrassed, which was practically unheard of for the man who once spent an entire week communicating through Kabuki dances that he said were shown to him by his spirit guide. "Can you talk to me?"

Face's response was instant. "Of course." He lay his hand on the bed so it was resting against Murdock's hip. Not touching, really. Just keeping contact. "What do you want to talk about?"

Murdock shook his head but angled towards Face. "No, not." He scratched behind his ear with his good hand. "I don't. Just you. Can you just... talk, to me? Anything you want. I just need something to listen to."

Face understood. Murdock had told him, once, that sometimes he sang or made random exclamations in Norwegian or appropriated the mannerisms of an perfectionist sous-chef because what was going on in Murdock's head was "too loud" and he needed to drown it out. The songs, puppet shows and accents were a way of clapping his hands over his ears and going "La la la!" until the bad noises went away.

Sometimes, of course, he just did it to see how many unintentionally hilarious threats he could provoke from BA. Everyone needs a hobby.

"No problem," said Face. "Actually, hang on." He sprang out of the bed, not caring that he'd stripped out of all but his boxers to sleep, and rushed out of the room.

Two minutes later he returned, holding a book and launching himself back under the covers. "Ahh, cold floor!" Who had hardwood without nice thick rugs, anyway? Face pulled the doona up, shivering dramatically and ignoring Murdock's snort. Once settled, he brandished his prize proudly. "Check it out – I found a bunch of books in the cupboard of that study down the hall. I've seen Hannibal reading stuff by this guy before which means you should like it, and it's about a spy so I won't pass out from boredom while I'm reading it to you."

Murdock glanced at the cover and smiled. His pupils were a bit dilated now that Face looked closer. He'd have to watch that. "Perfect," the Captain drawled. He snuggled down into the covers in what Face refused to acknowledge was a fairly accurate parody of his own actions of thirty seconds before. He batted his eyes at Face like a cheeky kid waiting for a bedtime story.

Face sighed. Of course Murdock would love this situation: It gave him an excuse to be a brat. At least it was distracting him already. Face swallowed against that thought. The blond needed a bit of time out of his own head too after watching those tapes.

"Okay," said Murdock. "Go."

Face cleared his throat. "Ahem. 'A Perfect Spy' by John le Carre." He opened the book with a flourish. Whatever the occasion, he couldn't help indulging in the thrill of an audience. "Chapter one."

"Face?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I have a juice box?"

Face knew this would happen. "No. You have your water."

"Face?"

"Yes."

"Can I have a box of animal crackers? Can I have a lollypop? Can I have a pony?"

"You can have a pony if you eat all your greens. Hannibal's making something for breakfast. Do you want me to read to you or not?"

"Yes please."

"Do you need to potty?"

Murdock made a straining face. "Um... Nope, not yet."

"That's disgusting."

"Read to me!"

"I'm trying! Stop interrupting me."

"Sorry."

"Are you gonna be quiet?" 

"Yes."

"...Okay. Chapter one."

"Face?" 

"What?"

"...Thanks."

Face reached across and squeezed his friend's arm. "No problem."

Finally, he was able to begin. The book wasn't his type, too wordy, but Murdock seemed to like it. For the next three chapters he didn't say a word. By chapter four, he was asleep. Face didn't stop, using Murdock's deep, even breaths a soft metronome as he read. He didn't know if it would work, but he wanted to reassure the pilot, even in sleep, that he wasn't alone.


	6. Chapter 6: Comfort

Downstairs, Hannibal and BA had abandoned their search for any remaining foodstuffs in the pantry (only Murdock on a particularly adventurous day would attempt to make breakfast from three gherkins, half a jar of seeded mustard and some stale self-raising flour). Tiredly putting a mission to the nearest bakery on the To Do list, they instead drank the last of the instant coffee black and attempted to regroup and recharge.

It was going about as well as expected.

Both men sat on stools at the kitchen island, spines curved wearily towards their mugs like their chins were magnetically attracted to the caffeine inside. Every now and then, one of them would stretch or roll his neck to elicit an impressive crack.

Suddenly, there was a thump from upstairs and the pitter patter of someone scurrying down the hall. BA and Hannibal jerked, instantly tense, listening for signs of trouble. The steps paused in one of the spare rooms then practically danced back to Murdock's again. Both men relaxed.

"Face," said Hannibal needlessly. God knew what he needed so urgently from that room – all that was in there were books and piles of old magazines, none of which had the type of content Face was typically interested in when selecting reading material.

"Mmm." BA paused. "You two watched the tapes." It wasn't a question.

Hannibal nodded tiredly. "Most of them, yes."

BA looked at him sternly. Hannibal knew the Corporal's mood was a reaction to the circumstances and fatigue and not an indication of insubordination towards Hannibal personally. That was a relief: He'd be too tired to lecture the younger man if it was.

"I don't wanna know," enunciated BA clearly. "I seen Crazy. I know it was bad. I don't need to see all that and get mad about things I can't change." _And people I can't get to_ was the unspoken but very clear message in his serious, dark eyes.

"Understood." It was. Hannibal needed to know what happened to anticipate Murdock's possible needs and reactions. Face forced himself to watch out of guilt or penance or one of those admirable but misguided tasks of loyalty that he was so stubborn about giving himself sometimes. BA didn't need that. He knew how it would affect him and was smart enough to realise that it wouldn't do any good.

"All I need to know," the big man continued, "is what'll help Murdock."

Hannibal nodded, once again grateful for BA's taciturn nature. He and the Corporal were similar in a lot of ways that might not be obvious to a casual observer. While BA didn't waste words, Hannibal didn't waste actions. They both did what was needed at the time and worried about the consequences later – or not. When you crossed them or someone they loved, they were ruthless. Face and Murdock were loyal to the end, no question, but Hannibal and BA had a dangerous darkness in their eyes at times. They were powerful enough to kill a man with a single blow, Ranger training or not, and something in their bearing told you that if you fucked up hard enough, they'd prove it.

This situation wasn't something that could be beaten or outwitted into submission though. Hannibal knew what BA was asking for.

"I should have taken precautions sooner," the Colonel told him honestly. "The incident with his hand, that could have been prevented."

BA nodded, taking that in.

"He'll need his meds," Hannibal continued. "He was five days without them and I don't know what kind of doses he was on."

"Find a doctor?" BA offered. "Someone who'll work for cash and not ask questions."

"That could help," agreed Hannibal. "Someone who can look at his hand and the wound on his ankle, too. I'm worried about infection with that one."

BA nodded again. Hannibal knew it would be done.

"I don't know how they fed him," he said, moving on. "He's obviously lost a bit of weight. We'll have to make sure he eats. Hi-carb, bland food." Hannibal paused, trying to work out how to say more without getting into specifics. "He might have issues with being alone or in the dark. He'll be out of combat indefinitely. We're going to have to go to ground for a while."

BA took that in. Face could scam them another place if they had to move, but for now they'd need supplies. Food, restock the first aid kit, basic toiletries… "I'll take the van, get everything we need."

Hannibal could have kissed him. Well, hugged him. He was still a beginner at this "open display of affection" thing, after all. After making sure Hannibal would be alright to deal with Murdock (and Face, who was high-maintenance at the best of times, bless him), BA grabbed his keys and left.

The Colonel allowed himself a deep breath before standing and heading back up the stairs.

He found them in Murdock's room, as he'd expected, but in a slightly different position than imagined. Face was still in the bed, covers around his waist, reading softly from a worn book. Murdock, in typical style, had sprawled out on his back in a virtual spread-eagle, taking up more room than seemed physically possible. At some point, he'd flung his arms out and one rested on Face's stomach now. The Lieutenant was using it to prop up his book.

Hannibal leaned against the doorway, happy to soak up the deceptively peaceful, almost domestic scene for as long as possible. Face's eyes flicked up and he gave a small smile, not pausing in his reading.

Murdock shifted, hyper-sensing the arrival of someone new. He rolled over slightly then hissed as the movement jarred his bruised ribs.

Face fell quiet and set the book aside, lying a hand on Murdock's shoulder. "Stop fidgeting," he admonished gently.

Murdock huffed and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah yeah." Ignoring Face's advice, he wriggled a bit more. "Face?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sticky."

It took Face a second to realise what he was talking about. "You want a shower?" It was a generic term: He and Murdock had both been injured enough times to know that sometimes you just had to suck it up and have a sponge bath.

Murdock nodded. "I'm gross."

"Think you can make it to the bathroom, Captain?" asked Hannibal. He exchanged a look with Face. Sponge baths were fine, but proper baths had a soothing, cleansing quality that couldn't be replicated with a warm sponge. It was science.

"Yep." Murdock answered way too quickly to have done any kind of internal assessment of his physical condition beforehand. Typical. Face sighed and Hannibal crossed the room. Together they helped Murdock out of bed and drag-carried him down the hall. It would have been easier if he hadn't been straining away from them, pulling himself forwards while singing, "Bath bath bath bath bath," under his breath.

Once the tub was filled and Murdock's hand and leg wrapped in plastic bags (ugly but efficient at keeping water out), Hannibal and Face lowered him into the tub.

The pilot let out a contented groan and leaned back, closing his eyes. "Bath," he sighed happily. ""Kay. You guys can go now. I'm gonna live here from now on."

The other two smiled faintly but didn't reply. There was no way they were leaving Murdock alone, no matter how stable he seemed right now.

Instead, Face reached over and pulled a bottle of shampoo off the shower rack. Squatting next to the tub, he rinsed Murdock's greasy hair with handfuls of water and lathered it up.

"The good stuff, Faceman?" Murdock didn't open his eyes but he'd clearly recognised the smell of Face's expensive, for-personal-use-only product. "I'm flattered."

Feeling a bit uncomfortable just standing around watching his teammates bathe each other, Hannibal knelt down as well. Wringing a flannel into the soapy water, he started cleaning Murdock's torso, careful to not get in Face's way. He made sure to let water drip onto Murdock's skin before touching him so the Captain wouldn't be startled.

Murdock made a soft noise of appreciation as Hannibal gently rubbed days' worth of sweat and dirt from his skin. "This is exactly what they told me the Army would be like," he drawled, completely relaxed under his friends' ministrations, "but I didn't believe 'em."

"I wondered why my recruitment officer made me meet with him in a sauna," said Face, smearing Murdock's hair with some kind of conditioning goo that Hannibal was nearly positive wasn't intended for naturally-coloured hair. Catching his glance, Face tucked the bottle away before Hannibal could confirm his suspicions.

"Just because he made you call him 'Sir' it doesn't mean he was a recruiting officer, Face," the Colonel said instead, leaving the matter of the other man's preternaturally caramel locks aside for the moment. It was good to banter, even half-heartedly. It helped Hannibal believe that things would be okay.

The three men fell into an easy silence, the only sounds the gentle lapping and occasional splash of water.

After a few minutes, Murdock spoke. "Sorry about last night." He opened his eyes but focussed only on the tile wall opposite him. The other two waited for him to say more but he didn't.

"It's okay," answered Face, rinsing the third and final application of conditioning goo out of Murdock's hair. "It was understandable."

Murdock tensed. He looked at his teammates. "You saw what happened."

Hannibal wasn't going to lie. "There were tapes."

He saw the pilot digest that. Face sat back on his haunches, giving his friend a bit of space while keeping within arm's reach.

"Where are they?" Murdock asked, voice clipped.

"They're with us." Hannibal didn't know how he'd react if the Captain asked to view them for himself. "We're going to destroy them."

A flash of alarm crossed Murdock's face. "Has Bosco seen them?"

"No," reassured Face instantly, putting a hand on Murdock's arm. "No, just me and Hannibal."

The pilot relaxed slightly. "Don't let him see them. There's… There were kids." They knew that. Some of the footage hadn't featured Murdock at all, only one or more of the children. It was ghastly. "Bosco shouldn't see that."

"He won't," promised Hannibal. Even if he and BA hadn't spoken this morning, he'd never intended to show the tapes to the Corporal. The big man's two soft spots were children and Murdock. Showing him the footage would be unnecessary, cruel and potentially dangerous.

Murdock's gaze dropped again. He stared at the water. Face couldn't tell if he was looking at the suds, the reflection of the lights or his own bruises.

"Come on, man," the blond said, tugging softly his friend's arm. "Water's going cold."

The pilot was silent as his teammates gently manoeuvred him out of the tub and dried him off. Wrapping him in the fluffiest towel Face could find, they steered him back down the hall into his bedroom. As they tucked him in, Hannibal and Face exchanged a sombre look. This was going to take much more than a couple of bandages and a warm bath.


	7. Chapter 7: Comfort

There was a creak, then a shuffle, then another creak, then a click.

Tentative breathing.

BA sighed. "Yeah, Fool?"

Normally he'd be much more volatile after being woken up at – he checked the clock next to his bed – asscrack o'clock in the morning. Especially by Murdock tiptoeing around his bedroom in the dark. They'd had this discussion before, many times. No Murdock, BA doesn't need you to watch him sleep. No Murdock, it doesn't matter whether you're dressed at the Tooth Fairy; BA doesn't want chocolate coins under his pillow. No Murdock, BA doesn't appreciate your lullabies. Ever.

Of course, this time was an exception. BA tried really hard to not be annoyed. (It wasn't as difficult as he thought it would be.)

Murdock limped over to the bed. Eying BA cautiously, he sat down on the very edge. BA said nothing. Murdock, of course, took the other man's lack of overt negative reaction as a green light to be as irritating as possible and promptly wriggled straight under the covers. How he managed to move so fast with busted ribs and half his limbs out of commission, BA didn't know. It was part of Murdock's superpower: No matter what condition his body was in, he could always manage to be eight different kinds of annoying.

As if to underline the point, Murdock's bony-ass elbow dug into Bosco's side.

BA took a deep breath to calm himself. The movement made the elbow press harder.

"There was a clown staring at me," said Murdock matter-of-factly.

BA didn't reply.

"When I woke up," the pilot continued. "There was a clown."

Right. Of course Crazy couldn't leave it alone. Had to make a big deal about everything, even though BA clearly hadn't wanted to bring it up.

"Bosco," asked Murdock, tipping his head up to study the other man. His chin poked into BA's chest. "Did you buy me a night light?"

There was no accusation in his tone, only curiosity.

Great. Just great. "Hannibal's idea," BA grunted in reply.

Murdock cocked his head. Hair flopped over one of his eyes. "Hannibal told you to buy me a night light?"

Dammit. "No. Told me you might have problems. In the dark."

"Oh." Murdock scratched his nose on BA's chest. At least, he _better_ have been scratching, not wiping. "So you got me a clown?"

"Yeah."

For a second, BA thought Murdock was going to thank him.

"You know clowns are like the least-comforting thing ever, right?"

Of course. Against his better judgement, Bosco took the bait. "Whatchu mean, Fool? Clowns are comforting. They got big smiles and shit."

Murdock shook his head. "Big, creepy, unnatural, painted-on smiles. They're abominations, Bosco."

BA scoffed. "Naw."

"Yeah. That's how I knew it was from you."

"What?"

Murdock shifted again, pushing himself up the bed to be more level with BA's eye-line. "Faceman would have gotten a duck or something. Some harmless, funny-looking animal. Hannibal would have just put a lamp in my room. You're the only one who'd get a clown."

Bosco refused to be psychoanalysed on the basis of a spur-of-the-moment purchase in Walmart. "It was the only one they had," he lied.

"Liar. Even if it was, you could have just got nothing." Murdock shook his head again. It was a weird motion, since he was lying on his side with his face sinking into BA's pillow. "I think you got it _because_ it's scary."

"Shut up, Fool."

"No, I mean it. Most people get put off by clowns. They're pale, their features ain't right, they're all Munch-ed up…"

"Get to the point, Crazy."

"But you." Murdock poked BA in the chest. "You aren't scared because you're scarier. Stuff that's intimidating to most people doesn't bother you because you've got the monopoly on intimidating."

That didn't make any sense. BA got the clown because it was bright and shiny and he didn't want Murdock coming into his room in the middle of the night exactly like this. Fool was reading too much into things again. "You been in therapy too long."

"That's not what they tell me." Murdock's smile was a little too wide, eyes a little too bright. BA refused to acknowledge the truth of the inherent creepiness in those attributes. Clowns were _friendly_. Why else would kids love 'em so much?

Murdock was quiet for a record amount of time. It was nearly four seconds before he said: "Bosco?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

BA pulled back a little so he could look at the other man without going cross-eyed. Murdock's strange smile wasn't entirely gone – his lips were pulled back in a weird kind of grimace. "'Sokay." Not like BA really _needed_ sleep tonight.

But Murdock wasn't satisfied. His strange expression deepened. His eyes looked really odd. "Not for tonight." Okay, sure, of course not. "I'm sorry you can't fly anymore."

BA realised what Murdock's expression was. It was guilt. He was flabbergasted. "What?" He frowned, but not in anger. "Why you talking about this now?"

Murdock shrugged as much as he was able in his current position. He went to chew on his already-mangled fingernails but BA swatted his hand away automatically. The whole team hated that habit of Murdock's. He didn't just bite his nails; he mutilated his fingers until they bled. It was disgusting.

BA watched his friend, concerned. Hannibal had said something that was echoing in his head now, clanging like an alarm bell. The thing Murdock did to his hand could have been prevented. He won't be ready for combat anytime soon. Last night, Murdock said he was sorry, he couldn't… Couldn't what?

He knew better than to ask, though. If Murdock wanted to talk about it, he would. Hell, there'd be no stopping him – he'd go on all night. If he didn't, there was no point pushing it.

So instead, Bosco said, "It's not your fault, Murdock." 

For the second time that night, Murdock called him a liar.

BA sat up a little, shaking his head. What the hell, someone should have said this years ago anyway. May as well come out now. "Listen to me, Crazy. You didn't know the door was open. That was our fault, mine and Face's. We shoulda been strapped in. Even the greenest recruit knows that. It was our dumb mistake, not yours."

But Murdock was still shaking his head. "My job to be aware of everything. You were injured, Face was beaten up. I should have checked the door. Fucking rookie mistake."

"So we all fucked up." BA wasn't gonna let this turn into a pity party. "It's fine now."

Murdock looked disbelieving and almost _mean_. There was an uncharacteristic sneer in his expression. BA didn't get it. Why apologise and then get mad when someone tells you it's okay? He studied Murdock's features. The other man's lips were pulled into a thin line now, tension in his jaw revealing his struggle to maintain the expression. Murdock looked almost… defensive? That didn't make any sense.

A thought hit BA so hard he was sure his mouth actually dropped open with the force of it. His stomach bottomed out and rolled unpleasantly.

"Hey," he said harshly. "You know all that stuff I say, you know that's just playing, right?"

All those asides and gruff comments, _I ain't flying with that crazy fool; Hannibal must be nuts to want you as a pilot; If he's flying, we're dying_ (he'd been in a particularly whimsical mood that day). BA didn't mean those, not really. He hated to fly but he didn't blame Murdock; at least not anymore. He knew the guy was a damn good pilot. He just gave him shit for something to do – it was their thing. Murdock always let it slide off him, answered back like it was no big deal. BA never thought it was actually bothering him.

"No, I know," said Murdock, rolling away from Bosco and onto his back. "Doesn't matter. It shouldn't have happened. I just. Shit." He brought his injured hand up to his face, resting it over his eyes. "Sorry."

The man had more mood swings than a pregnant chick. "I told you it's okay, Fool," said BA firmly. "That's the end of it."

Murdock took in a shuddering sigh. "Yeah." He didn't sound convinced. He sniffed a little, then coughed as if trying to cover it up. "Hey Bosco?"

"What now? If you say you're sorry again, I'll break your other hand."

"Thanks for my clown."

"Don't worry about it."

Murdock's bandaged hand was still covering his eyes. BA ignored the moisture slipping down the other man's cheekbones. The pilot gave a strange gasping chuckle. "Ohh. I fucking hate this." 

BA wished he could do something more. "I know, Crazy."

Murdock pressed the heels of both hands hard into his eyes. He writhed a little, kicking his feet out. "Fuck."

He was gonna hurt himself if he kept that up. BA reached over and pulled his friend's arms down, gently but firmly. "Hey. It's okay. Murdock. Hey. Look at me."

The other man was shaking, eyes red. He was breathing all wrong, like an emphysemic fish out of water. At least he seemed to be doing his best to focus on BA.

Bosco squeezed Murdock's wrists, not hard, before letting go. "You're gonna be okay," he repeated.

Using the bandage on his hand to wipe his face, Murdock laughed. It sounded like a barking cough. "You know," he said, "when you say it, I think I actually believe you."


	8. Chapter 8: Hurt

Murdock was scowling. And that was just too damn bad. BA levelled his own glare at the pilot, even though Murdock's expression wasn't directed at him. Man needed to put up and shut up. This was (mostly) his own stupid fault.

Hannibal's expression remained neutral. He was silent, ostensibly keeping out of the doctor's way while standing just close enough to infringe on the man's personal space. Face was hovering by the bed, hands stuffed in his pockets as he watched the examination of Murdock's broken fingers.

The patient himself was not quite sulking, but was definitely hovering on the precipice in a typically gravity-defying way. His bottom lip had about one millimetre's grace before it would be stuck out in a full on pout, and that was being generous. He sat on the bed, watching the doctor unwrap and manipulate his hand sullenly, not protesting or showing any expression but a steady frown. Even when the doctor pressed on his bent fingers and swollen joints, the only change in Murdock's expression was a slight flaring of the nostrils.

"Well," said the doctor finally, turning to address all the men and not seeming intimidated in the least by the way that three of them towered over him. "You're idiots, but I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that."

BA cracked his knuckles. It was one thing for _him_ to think (and say, loudly and often) things like that about his teammates. It was quite another for this interloper to do it.

The doctor didn't react to the show of muscle. "This should have been looked at when it first happened, not, what, nearly two days later?" He didn't bother waiting for an answer, reaching into his bag and pulling out a syringe and vial. His next words were directed at Murdock. "If you don't want to have a permanently mangled hand, I'm going to have to reset this. I've got a local anaesthetic here so it shouldn't be painful, but without x-rays I can't guarantee it's going to be perfect."

"No hospitals," Hannibal reiterated for the tenth time.

"Permanently mangled?" asked Face, affronted by the man's disrespectful and cavalier attitude. "That the medical term for it?"

The doctor bristled, and was clearly about to offer a sniping response when Murdock spoke for the first time since the examination began.

His voice was an exaggeration of his usual Southern drawl. "Ah think he's talkin' about a proximal interphalangeal joint dorsal fracture-dislocation, Faceman," he said, expression incongruously open. "Unless he meant this one," he flexed his pinkie finger as much as the swelling would allow, "which ah believe is compromised by a distal interphalangeal joint fracture. Also knows as 'mallet finger'." He shrugged, smiling innocently. "But ah could be wrong. It's all just colours an' noise to me."

The doctor gaped for a moment but recovered his composure admirably. "Point taken," he snapped peevishly. Hannibal didn't like his tone. "Tell me," the doctor asked Murdock, "If you're so smart, why didn't you set this yourself? Why bother finding me at all?"

Murdock's grin only grew, baring his teeth. "Aw shucks doc, ah didn't think you was gonna figure it out." He gestured to his body with his broken hand, fingers jutting out at grotesque angles. He was shirtless, the doctor having already examined his superficial wounds and that appalling ankle injury. "Ah just did all this so ah could meetcha. Whaddya say? Call this our first date?"

The doctor clearly didn't know how to react. Threats, physical intimidation, violence, drugs; as a back alley physician he was used to any and all of that. He didn't even know what this was, let alone how to respond to it.

Luckily, Hannibal stepped in. Sending a warning look to his Captain, he addressed the doctor. "Just fix his hand, doc," he said in a tone that dared the other man to react to the abbreviated title. "We didn't hire you for the commentary."

No one could disobey Hannibal when he spoke in that tone of voice. The doctor's hackles lowered. He lowered his head and set about treating Murdock's fingers without comment.

As he gathered his belongings to leave, though, the doctor couldn't help one last peevish remark. "I know who you are," he told them with a tone that was much more assertive than his stance. He didn't look them in the eye as he continued. "I could have the Feds here in one phonec..."

He trailed off and visibly wilted as Hannibal stepped forward, nearly chest to chest with the much smaller man. BA and Face had straightened too. They didn't bother with any overt threats or machismo. If this man knew who they were, and they hadn't been trying to hide it from him, then he knew how dangerous they could be.

Murdock just laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. "Keep saying things like that and we'll just have tah keep ya!" he cackled. "Ya did undress me so tender. Ah think we could have a real nice-"

"Captain." Hannibal didn't raise his voice, but his tone was sharp. Murdock obligingly stopped, bouncing slightly on the bed and humming.

The doctor took the hint. Thanking Christ that he'd already accepted payment in cash for this job, he squeezed past BA and veritably bolted down the stairs. BA followed calmly, just in case the doc had any ideas about making that phonecall after he left.

The outsider gone, Hannibal's stern expression now levelled itself at Murdock. "Face," he said simply.

The Lieutenant knew his cues by now. "Yep." He hurried out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him and mentally wishing Murdock well.

"What was that?" demanded Hannibal as soon as Face was gone. Murdock was still bouncing and humming. His off-centre grin didn't faze the Colonel in the least.

"Ah don't know what you mean, Hannibal," answered Murdock innocently, still talking in an exaggerated Hick drawl.

Hannibal reacted swiftly, grabbing the wrist of Murdock's injured hand and pulling up sharply. Off-balance, the smaller man fell forwards before scrabbling awkwardly to his feet. If he'd been slightly slower to react, he would have fallen off the bed.

Wincing for the first time since the doctor had arrived and favouring his bad ankle, Murdock dropped the act and glared. "Ow!" He said it distinctly, like a protest in and of itself.

Hannibal ignored him. "You are injured," he told the other man bluntly. "You needed medical attention. BA found a doctor who was willing to treat you and overlook our circumstances. I don't care if you didn't like him. I don't care if he made you feel patronised. I don't care if he called your mother a whore." Murdock expression grew feral but Hannibal didn't flinch. "He's all we have. You embarrassed yourself, Captain. If you want to get caught because you're throwing a tantrum, you'd better leave now. I've never allowed any liabilities on my team and I'm not going to start now."

Murdock sneered. "So you're kicking me off the team, then?"

Hannibal refused to be baited. "You're acting like a petulant teenager. I don't care how you behave around us but you're damn well not going to compromise the safety of this team."

"Then we have a problem, don't we?" Murdock's chin jutted out, his eyes blazing and mouth pulled back in a savage snarl. Hannibal had seen him like this before, but only very rarely and never directed at himself. The Captain held up his freshly bandaged hand. "I'd say this is about as compromising to your safety as it can get!"

"It's a break."

"It's NOT just a break!" Murdock's sudden shout was vicious. His cheeks flushed blotchy red. "It's not and you know it!" He stepped forward, flecks of saliva hitting Hannibal's face as he continued. "I can't. Fucking. Shoot. A gun. Where does that leave me? Where does it leave _you_? Tell me Hannibal, what's the place on your team for physical and mental cripples?"

Murdock was venomous when he lashed out. Hannibal, however, had a natural immunity. "You're not a cripple."

"I _am_," Murdock snapped. "If I can't shoot, I can't defend you. I'm not a soldier anymore."

"That's bullshit." Anger finally seeped into Hannibal's tone. He reached past Murdock and opened the drawer in the bedside table. He pulled out a revolver and, before the pilot could react, pressed it into the other man's left hand. Murdock tried to pull away but the Colonel wouldn't let him, wrapping his own massive paw around the gun as well and holding it in place.

"You've never given in to self-pity before, Murdock," Hannibal said, feeling Murdock's fingers reflexively slide into place around the barrel of the gun. "I would have thought that if anyone could meet something like this head on and spit in its eye, it would be you." He released his grip and stepped back.

Murdock didn't drop the gun. He glared at Hannibal, breathing heavily. His eyes were bright. He raised his arm, pointing the gun at Hannibal.

Neither man moved. Hannibal's heart pounded, though he wasn't afraid.

Sweat beaded on Murdock's forehead. His body started shaking. His nose started to run.

Suddenly, he moved. Horror flooded Hannibal as Murdock jammed the gun under his own chin and uncocked the safety catch.

For several long seconds, the men stared at each other. Hannibal didn't know what his expression looked like – pleading? Shocked? Regretful? – but Murdock's was devastating. He pressed the barrel of the gun so hard that his head tipped back, eyes streaming as they locked on the Colonel. The only sound in the room was his harsh, gasping breaths.

Hannibal saw the movement before it happened. The tendons in Murdock's arm flexed. The Colonel reached forward, knowing even as he did so that the two feet of space between them was large enough to make his actions futile. He'd barely had time to react before Murdock's finger twitched and the trigger was pulled.

_Click_.

Hannibal reached Murdock at the same time the echo of the sound hit their ears. He yanked the weapon out of the younger man's hands, bracing his arm across the pilot's chest in case he struggled. He didn't, and the force of Hannibal's weight pushed him backwards. Staggering, Murdock sat down on the bed.

"It wasn't loaded," he said in a very odd voice. Hannibal checked the chamber to be sure before tucking the revolver in his jeans behind his back. His hands were shaking now too. He had no idea what to say.

Which turned out to be fine, because Murdock spoke instead. "I think." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "I think I'm just tired."

Hannibal had no response to that. Murdock sagged, still breathing heavily, and rested his head on his knees. He didn't move. After a few minutes, when Hannibal's own heart rate had returned to normal and he still hadn't been able to think of a way to deal with this situation, he left the room.


	9. Chapter 9: Comfort

Face and BA knew the second Hannibal appeared at the bottom of the stairs that something was wrong. The older man's face was ashen and he looked uncharacteristically shaken. It was an unnerving sight.

They stood up from the couch as the Colonel made his way into the room.

"Hannibal?" asked Face with concern. He'd only been gone for a couple of minutes. What could have happened in that time?

The Colonel looked at his men seriously. Despite his pallor, his eyes were clear and focused.

"We need to get Murdock to a hospital."

BA's first thought was that the pilot was injured, but that was irrational. Hannibal would never leave someone alone if they were in need of medical attention.

Face, of course, understood right away. "You mean an institution?" He was gobsmacked. They'd never once, in all the years of working and living together, entertained that as a possibility. Especially now: Putting Murdock in a hospital while the MPs were on their tail was as good as locking him up and throwing away the key and Hannibal knew it. "What are you talking about? You know we can't do that."

"We've got to," retorted Hannibal sharply. "We can't take care of him here." He looked at his boys seriously, expression so carefully controlled that BA felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. "He tried to shoot himself."

"_WHAT?"_ Face's appalled exclamation nearly drowned out the thump of BA pushing past Hannibal and thundering up the stairs. The blond jerked as if his body wanted to follow but he forced himself to stay put. Murdock was okay or Hannibal wouldn't be down here. BA would take care of him. It wouldn't be good for everyone to burst in. Face gripped Hannibal's arms instead, practically shaking him. "Hannibal, what happened?"

The remorse, anguish and guilt he saw in the older man's eyes made Face's stomach drop.

* * *

><p>BA burst into Murdock's room to find him slumped down, sitting on the bed with his forehead resting on his knees. Ascertaining with a glance that Murdock wasn't in danger of bleeding to death or injuring himself with anything within arm's reach, BA set about checking the rest of the bedroom. He briskly opened all the cupboards and drawers, rifling through shelves and even under the bed. When he was satisfied that there were no weapons or instruments that could be used as weapons (at least without a few minutes' creativity that he damn sure wasn't gonna let Murdock have), BA crouched in front of the pilot himself.<p>

Murdock hadn't moved while BA was ransacking his room. He didn't protest as the Corporal gently but firmly pushed on his shoulders until he was sitting in an upright position. Murdock's eyes were red and downcast but he wasn't crying. He didn't react as BA tilted his head this way and that, combing massive fingers through the Murdock's hair to check for any bruises or new injuries. There were none.

Finally, BA settled himself on the bed next to Murdock. He didn't say anything. In contrast to the invasive way he'd just searched the room and examined Murdock, BA now left a good foot of space between them.

If Murdock appreciated or even noticed the token personal space, he didn't show it. He didn't drop his head again though, and the fidgeting of his hands told BA that the other man wasn't catatonic. He was just thinking.

"I'm okay now." Murdock's voice was eerily chipper in contrast to the slack, chapped mouth that produced it. "Temporary loss of cabin pressure but we are stabilised and ready to proceed on course."

BA hated it when Murdock got like this. His normal prattling on was bad enough but when he started talking in riddles or using stupid accents, BA really had to restrain himself from wringing the fool's neck. Over the years, Bosco had managed to find a way to deal with it that didn't involve infuriated rage (his) or severe bodily harm (Murdock's). If he ignored the words coming out of Murdock's mouth - as much as possible anyway - and concentrated on the tone and other physical cues, it usually gave BA an indication of what he was dealing with.

Right now, Murdock was slumped in the position the Corporal had manhandled him into. His hands were in his lap, fingers of the left absently fiddling with the fresh bandages on the right. One of his legs was bouncing slightly. His face was flushed and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow. His eyes were downcast. The sum of the parts was a picture of dejection.

Ignoring the cheerful drivel coming out of Murdock's mouth, Bosco asked, "What happened?"

Murdock turned to smile at him brightly. His eyes were glassy. "Nothing to concern yourself with, old chap!" BA grit his teeth as the familiar British accent grated on every one of his nerves. "Bit of a hiccup before, minor setback, a hicback! Or a cupset, wot? Everything's right as a Dorset shower. Drip drip drop, as they say."

This was why Face or Hannibal usually handled Murdock. Because somehow he had the ability to push every one of BA's buttons at once like Bart Simpson in an elevator, and all of BA's good intentions of being understanding and patient went out the window and he found himself blurting out stuff like: "Hannibal thinks you need to go back to a hospital."

Murdock's leg stilled. BA watched his face very carefully as he continued. "We don't wanna lock you up. We don't want you to blow your brains out either."

The pilot shivered as though someone had laid a hand on him and he was shaking it off. "It wasn't loaded," he told Bosco, thankfully using his normal accent this time.

BA didn't really know if he was prepared for the answer, but he had to ask, "Did you know that?"

Murdock giggled suddenly. "I must have. Would have been insane to pull the trigger otherwise, wouldn't it?"

_God damn_. Bosco felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He ignored it as best he could. "You're gonna have to give me more than that, man."

"Hannibal got the gun from the drawer," Murdock elaborated, eyes still very bright. BA filed that detail away for later: What the hell was Hannibal doing letting Crazy around guns right now? "It must have been my revolver that I left there before I went on my little excursion. The gun wasn't loaded when I put it away. So it makes sense that it wasn't loaded now. QED: I knew that."

BA wasn't being filled with huge amounts of confidence in Murdock's mental stability from this conversation. Nor were his stores of patience being replenished. "Dammit, Murdock. What the hell were you thinking? Do you _want_ us to tie you down like an animal so you don't hurt yourself? You want us to leave you in some hospital where they put a diaper on you and dope you to your eyeballs?" Murdock flinched a little, but BA didn't stop. "I'd do it. Hannibal too. If I thought you were really gonna hurt yourself I'd take you to the closest crazy house and put you in a straightjacket myself."

Murdock was staring. It took him a second to speak. "Well that's presumptuous," he said. "Objectively speaking, I mean. What right do you have to dictate the course of someone else's life like that?"

"Every right," retorted BA immediately. "If you're being a damn idiot and thinking of _ending_ that life, yeah, I got every right."

"It's not your choice to make." Murdock sounded like he was debating an abstract concept and hadn't been holding a gun to his head minutes before. Bosco tried very hard to not let it frustrate him. "Surely the person _experiencing_ the pain is more qualified to make a reasonable assessment on their quality of life, and the merits of continuing it, than anyone else."

"This ain't like putting a dog out of its misery when it's been hit by a car," countered BA. "Everyone has pain. You gotta be alive to get through it though, otherwise it's just giving up at the first hurdle. Fucking weak, man."

"It's _NOT._" Murdock's tone suddenly wasn't impassive anymore. He looked furious. "It's _not_ weak and it's not giving up. You have no idea, you have no fucking idea." He was repeating himself in his agitation. "It's so arrogant to assume that the worst _you've_ been through is the ultimate apex of human suffering. Who are you to tell someone that they deserve to keep hurting?"

"I ain't telling anyone anything," BA answered, forcing himself not to match Murdock's volume. "I'm saying that I would rather have you alive in a hospital somewhere, hating me, than dead because you couldn't beat this."

"Oh! Well! Thank you very much!" Murdock hadn't stopped shouting. "Please tell me what 'this' is, that you think I should be beating so easily? You are a self-proclaimed expert after all."

Bosco ignored the words. He focused instead on his friend's eyes, which were bloodshot and wild. "Pain," he said simply. "I think you go beat up real bad in that place and saw things that no one should have to see. I think it hurt you a lot." Murdock had fallen silent. "I think they kept you away from your routine and your meds and your brain's still trying to catch up." Murdock looked away at that. BA knew he'd hit the mark. "I think right now it feels like you'll never get through a day without crying, let alone be a part of the team again. But I know. I KNOW," and he made sure Murdock was looking at him as he said this, "that you will."

Murdock's jaw was clenched. He tipped his head back, blinking rapidly, and chuckled. "You also think you're pretty wise, don't you?" There wasn't enough sting in the words to hurt.

"I lost my daddy when I was eight," BA told him solemnly. He hoped Crazy was listening because he damn well wasn't gonna repeat this. "Mama had to work two jobs, late nights, just so we wouldn't get kicked out of our one bedroom, no bathroom apartment." Bosco didn't look, but he could feel Murdock watching him. "I started dealing when I was thirteen just to bring some money in. Sixteen, I was stealing cars for parts. Got caught a couple years later and the judge told me it was either two years of service or five years in juvie." He snorted. "Man, if I'da known how many years the Army was gonna take from me… Hell, I probably still would have joined."

Bosco risked a glance at Murdock. The other man was still, looking at him with an undefinable glint in his eyes. BA continued. "Point is, now I'm thirty-six, got no wife, no kids, no life outside of what we do and the government I served has an order out to shoot me on sight. Haven't seen my mamma in two years." He glared sternly at Murdock. "I ain't self-pitying. I'm saying. This is the life I was handed and I'd rather have it, no matter how hard and fucked up it can be, than nothing at all."

Murdock coughed. He rubbed his eyes. "I'm just tired," he said for the second time that afternoon, though BA didn't know that.

"So you rest." Bosco put an arm around Murdock, hoping this wasn't setting a precedent the pilot would enforce every day. "You rest, let us take care of you, let your meds kick in again and don't think about anything else until you're ready to."

"One day at a time, huh?" Droplets fell from Murdock's eyes onto his bandages.

"Sure. Just don't let it swallow you." He squeezed the pilot's shoulders. "What woulda happened if I'd given up after Mexico when the thought of flying scared the pants off me?"

"It still scares the pants off you," mumbled Murdock automatically.

BA decided to let him have that one. Just this time. "Yeah, it does. And I still do it." Murdock wisely didn't interject again. He knew the point Bosco was trying to make. "It scares me and it's hard, and sometimes LIFE is scary and hard but you just do it." Okay, that was a little cheesy. BA hurried on. "Anyway. I think it's worth it, Murdock."

The Captain sniffed. "If you'd given up, the Army wouldn't be chasing you. You'd be able to see your mom."

BA shook him, just a little. "Yeah, and you'd be up here by yourself talking to the walls instead of someone who's gonna make sense."

"True." Murdock sniffed again and wiped his nose with his bandaged hand.

"You're gonna be okay, Crazy." The nickname slipped out by accident but Murdock didn't seem to mind.

"I know," he sighed. He leaned against BA's sturdy side. "Thanks, Bosco. I'm sorry I'm so… quicksilver lately. I know it's hard to put up with."

"Worth it, Murdock."

"Thanks."

* * *

><p>Downstairs, Hannibal was trying very hard not to wince under Face's glare.<p>

"You gave him a _gun_?"

It was obvious that the older man felt horrible and Face honestly wasn't trying to make him feel worse, but he couldn't help his incredulous exclamation. What the hell was Hannibal thinking?

"I was trying to help him," Hannibal replied, reflexively going on the defensive in response to Face's accusatory statement. "I thought he needed to know that he could still handle a weapon."

Face nearly exploded. "He knows he can physically pick one up, Hannibal! Even with his fingers broken, that's not the issue. You saw the tapes! I can't believe you thought that would be a good idea! His meds haven't even kicked in again yet. He needs to heal before we can get him back in the field."

"I know that!" snapped Hannibal. "It was the wrong move, I know that. That doesn't change the fact that he needs help that we obviously can't provide."

"Does it?" asked Face. "I think this shows that _we_ need to be more careful, not that he needs to be put away. What was a gun doing in his room anyway?"

"It wasn't loaded." A pathetic excuse to both men's ears.

"Did you know that?" Face returned.

Hannibal lost his momentum. His shouldered slumped and his face crumpled for a moment before he took a breath and pulled himself back. "No," he answered tightly.

The implications left Face reeling. He felt a belated wave of guilt and sympathy for Hannibal. "Fuck. I'm… I'm sorry, Hannibal. That must have been… Jesus." He wiped a hand over his face and tried again. "He's not okay right now. No one's disputing that. I don't think he should be locked away though. He needs support right now, goals, things to strive for. He doesn't need to be tied to a bed and pumped full of sedatives."

The Colonel sighed. "I just don't know what to do right now, Face. What if…"

Hannibal cut himself off at a sound from upstairs. Two sets of feet were making their way down the stairs.

Murdock appeared first, watched carefully if not quite herded by BA, who gripped his arm and helped him limp over to the others.

"Hi," Murdock said, attempting a smile. His eyes were puffy.

"Hey, buddy." It was obvious that Face was restraining himself. "How are you?"

Murdock nodded. "I'll be okay," he said honestly. "Had some Bosco therapy. It's like chicken soup for the fractured brain."

Face and Hannibal pretended not to see the affectionate smile BA gave Murdock at that.

"Captain. Murdock." Hannibal cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "I can't apologise enough for my actions. What I did was rash, insensitive and dangerous."

Murdock shook his head, looking skittish and a little embarrassed. "It's okay. I'm sorry too. I'm not really functioning at full capacity yet, I think."

"I know that," replied Hannibal earnestly before realising what he was saying. "That is, I understand it's been a difficult time…"

But Murdock was giggling and Bosco was shaking his head at Hannibal in mock exasperation. Murdock's laugh wasn't quite right and BA looked exhausted, but it was better than nothing. In the pause between the tension, Face broke his own leash and launched himself at the pilot, slamming into him with a hug that had to be a little painful for Murdock's bruised ribs. He didn't complain though, wrapping his arms around Face with equal force.

"Don't EVER do that again," Face said harshly into Murdock's neck. "I will tie you to a chair. I don't even care if you hate me. Never do that again."

"I know," answered Murdock. "Bosco's already given me that talk. I'm sorry. I'll be alright."

"You better." They pulled apart and, as with Hannibal's awkwardness and BA's rare tenderness, no one mentioned Face's watery eyes.

"Actually Faceman, I wanted to ask you something." All eyes on Murdock. "D'ya think maybe, after I'm healed up a bit, you could teach me how to shoot South paw?" He waved his bandaged hand in the air. "Just in case Ol' Righty ain't up to scratch right away?"

Face's jaw dropped and he glanced at Hannibal and BA. "Uh, sure. I mean, yeah, of course. Whatever you need."

"Thanks. Not right now, but maybe in a few weeks."

The blond nodded, trying not to look too eager. "Whenever. Anytime's cool."

Murdock smiled. Still a little shaky, but getting there. "Thanks Face."

The Lieutenant looked at him, then at BA, then back and forth again. They waited patiently. Eventually, Face's gaze settled on BA.

"Magic negro," he said, voice full of wonderment.

BA and Hannibal groaned. Murdock cackled. Face stepped closer to BA, poking him in the chest.

"No, seriously. You fixed him." Face looked at Murdock again. "How did you do that?"

BA batted Face's hand away. "I just talked to him, fool. Get off me."

Face shook his head. "Magic," he breathed.

Murdock was giggling so hard he'd collapsed on the sofa, clutching his sore ribs. Hannibal sat down hurriedly to support him. It was gratifying to see the Captain happy, but the older man hoped these mood swings would settle down when his medications started working.

Things weren't "fixed" no matter what Face said, not by a long shot. Murdock would have to be under constant supervision until they could be sure that his moods had stabilised. He might still need therapy or treatment they couldn't provide. Face had been right though. The best place for Murdock wasn't in a hospital, regardless of how well-trained their doctors were. It was with them.

So for now, Hannibal just held the other man up and let himself enjoy the laughter.

* * *

><p>THE END! Thanks so much for everyone who readreviewed. xoxo


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